Addiction
by Tina Shea
Summary: Johnlock; post-Reichenbach; Sherlock returns to substance abuse and John convinces him that there are much better things.


Sherlock shook as the needle pierced his skin. Problems, there were always more and more and more.

He had returned to his substance abuse to tame his wild feelings and thoughts, to subdue them. Dammit, John Watson, he thought. That was a large portion of his confusion.  
His arm relaxed as he withdrew the syringe. Sighing, placed it in his jacket pocket, intending to dispose of it at the hospital later. If John found out, he would kill him. Or worse, he would never end up loving him.  
The door opened and Sherlock heard John's steady but gentle footsteps as he made his way up the stairs. He drew in his breath quickly—John wasn't supposed to be home for at least another hour. No, no NO! What if he can tell? Sherlock thought, feeling as though his head may explode. He frantically picked up his violin, swinging the bow in his hand but not playing anything. The grocery bags rustling in his hands, John walked into the flat.  
"Everything okay, Sherlock?" he asked, setting his load on the small island in the kitchen.  
"Yes. Quite. Fine." Sherlock answered pointedly, as if to politely ask John to leave him alone.  
"No, no it's not, I can tell," John said, irritation flickering across his face. "I thought…I thought we were being more honest with each other now." He bit his lip. Maybe he'd said too much. After all, he didn't want Sherlock thinking he had a crush on him. Married to his work, he'd said. The first night they met. These adolescent longings would get John nowhere, and he knew that. He thought saw Sherlock's eyes flicker up toward him for a moment, not in scrutiny, but in an almost innocently hopeful glance. John thoroughly convinced himself he was imagining things.  
But Sherlock had looked up at him, catching himself after an instant. The drugs made him slow, he couldn't mask his emotions as well as he would like to. He didn't simply want to hide them; he needed to. John had denied that he was gay. Bisexual, maybe? Did it even matter? He knew that John would not want to be with him. These thoughts clouded Sherlock's mind every day, and had slowly eaten away at his willpower, causing his relapse. The best way to get rid of this was to get rid of John, but Sherlock was not ready to do that. He was attempting to get rid of his feelings for him instead.  
"John, I—"  
"Just leave it, Sherlock. I know you don't want to talk. It's fine." His voice trembled ever so slightly in his last few words. He looked over Sherlock's pale face—his eyes seemed more frantic, the circles beneath them growing darker and darker. He was becoming gaunt, and John had been denying every sign of what he truly knew Sherlock was doing. A brilliant man who made bad decisions and those decisions could cost him quite a bit. John knew confronting him would be useless, so he retired to his room, shoulders hunched, not quite knowing what to do.

Two hours later, a soft knock sounded on John's door. He glanced at the crumbling white paint on the door which was already slightly ajar. He did not respond. Sherlock pushed the door open with his fingertips and stood in the doorframe, waiting for some kind of permission to speak.  
"Well?"  
"I just…John. I'm sorry. I don't mean to upset you but I do and I don't know how to fix any of this."  
John sat up straighter, gazing at him. "Come here," he said after a deafening silence.  
Sherlock slowly approached the bed, sitting on the edge. John moved in toward him to grab his trembling hands. "You are so very important to me," he began, leaning to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "I couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose you again. Don't make me face that. Please." His voice cracked.  
"John."  
"Shh, no, don't you even speak." John begged, intertwining his fingers with Sherlock's. "I don't want to hear it. You're mine and I'm keeping you safe. Oh God, I can feel your pulse. It's racing, Sherlock. You can't keep injecting yourself every time you feel something that you don't understand. It isn't healthy, and God, if you left me for good…"  
"John. That isn't going to happen. I love you too much for that to happen," Sherlock said dismissively, beginning to pull away.  
John lowered his gaze, trying to hide the tears that were building. But Sherlock knew how he was hurting, how he was longing. John felt cool fingertips below his chin, cooling his warm tears. He lifted his head to feel Sherlock's lips pressed gently against his own, moving slowly and softly. John moved one hand from Sherlock's grip to caress his face as he was pulled even deeper into the dizzying kiss.  
So this is love.


End file.
